Death's Jester
by JustCallMeMarly
Summary: Apparently something in him was lacking... Nixon POV


_**Disclaimer: This story is based on the mini-series ONLY which I consider to be, ultimately, fiction with a large foundation of real people, stories and events (come on, it's HOLLYwood… There's bound to be embellishments, exaggerations & outright inaccuracies! ). With that in mind, this has been written based on the characters of the mini-series, NOT the real people – for whom my admiration and gratitude is infinite. I do not own anything having to do with**_ _Band of Brothers**. The only things I do own are the measly words strung together in the particular sentences that follow… LOL.**_

_Timeline Note: Takes place during 'Points' as they settled into Austria… you'll know where after you finish._

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Death's Jester

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Death didn't even want him.

There was proof.

That olive drab scrap of metal with two holes from one bullet… He'd kept it as a morbid trophy of sorts, and it mocked him. In the weeks and months that followed, all he could do was toast it with a glass of the Vat that he hoped – he so very much hoped – would never be empty.

If that wasn't bad enough, the freshly-awarded third star for his jump wings joined the chorus of mockery. _Not you, not you… BOOM!_

He'd properly toasted every single man from the 17th Airborne that went down in that damn plane he was unlucky enough to have been on at the time, but somehow lucky enough to escape. _What a hell of a way to die…_ The unfairness of it all ripped emotion from him in ways he never thought possible, leaving his soul dry and brittle. And thirsty. _Only the finest for Mrs. Nixon's baby boy._

Anyone who had the chance to meet him would say that Lewis Nixon was flirting with death with every breath he took. Seriously. Who smokes like it's going out of style, drinks like they're stopping production tomorrow, _volunteers_ for a ground-breaking combat regiment and happily cracks jokes about it all? Lewis Nixon, that's who. And it was what most would consider crazy. But that was alright – for some reason, his brand of insanity seemed to be Dick Winter's brand of sanity. A grounding rock for the overwhelming sense of decency, or something like that. As long as there was some sort of purpose to his actions, Nix could live with being viewed as 'slightly off'.

Stories were widespread among the troops. It was the general way of the military. How else were men supposed to keep the fear and boredom at bay? So, stories were rampant and legends were built in the firefights of war. Ron Speirs wasn't afraid of death. Like a proper soldier, he met it head on. Dick wasn't afraid of death. Like a proper leader, he didn't acknowledge it at all. They were both men who were _made _for the Army, who were made for _war_. Lewis Nixon wasn't afraid of death. He laughed in its face, which meant he was most assuredly _not_ made for the Army. His easy-going detachment from the emotions that war wrought and the daily wisecracks, in essence, made him Death's jester – the witty sidekick who had placed himself firmly between the Grim Reaper and Major Dick Winters. He'd continue on in his ways to make sure that Easy Company kept their leader and the world could continue knowing her hero.

In the past, he had always smirked in response to the stories that he'd hear about Dick or Speirs. Since he worked closely with both of them, it was always a good laugh to hear what the true story turned into by the time it made its way from Abel to Item. But now, he knew he would be another man in the gossip circles. How could he not after defying death so blatantly in front of so many witnesses? Lewis Nixon, Death Dodger. Had a ring to it, kind of, if only it were true. Death was just merely flirting back, that's all… Entertaining the entertainment.

He knew he'd probably dodged death on D-Day. That split-second deep breath he'd taken before jumping probably cost the guy behind him his chute in the firestorm. _What a hell of a way to die…_ In Carentan, Dick's ricochet could have been in Nix's chest if he'd actually crouched down in that road over his map, as he'd originally intended. Hell, if Dick hadn't shoved him away from the fire as mortar shells flew in Bastogne, Harry's leg wound could have easily been Nix's head. The Nuenen retreat and his observation jump were just cherries on the sundae, really.

Death had marched right up and stared him in the face, though. Almost as if it were a challenge. Compliments of Hitler and his _righteous_ fucking Reich. A challenge in the form of desolate faces and heart-wrenching wails of men who had lived under murder and torture. _Think you're good enough for Death?_

As he had walked along the rows of broken men, _dead_ men, he had felt the inexplicable urge to laugh. Out of place emotion, yes. He was fully aware of that. And if Dick hadn't been watching him so closely, as it always had seemed to be the case then, Nix probably would have sat right down and done it. He would have laughed… laughed until he cried. And cried until there was nothing left in his body, not even the Vat 69 running through his veins because he would have cried that out too. In any other situation, Nix would have felt jilted - but the criminal indifference of an entire nation lying stark before him, as the stench of human destruction had permeated his alcohol-numbed brain, only made him feel insignificant.

Most would call him a lucky son of a bitch. Some would joke about how Dick's tendency to be 'bullet-proof' had rubbed off on him. But no, Nix didn't see it that way. To him, that very personal rejection of Death just meant it was one more thing the rich boy from Nixon, New Jersey wasn't cut out to accomplish. And maybe it was that particular insignificance of his that had rubbed off on Dick. If so, Nix could be grateful for it.

No, Death didn't even want him. But for now, at least, he was square with that.

Easy Company had gone from the deep, dark, miserable recesses of Hell represented in culmination at Landsburg, to the panorama of light and hope that the clear lakes and picturesque mountains represented in Austria. As conscious as Nix was of that physical journey, he was very aware of the similar, personal, mental journey he'd trekked. It was why he had been reasonably sober sitting in the Eagle's nest - hell, _Speirs_ had been drunker than he had been. And it was why, despite the truckload of Hermann Goering's finest in his possession, all of Easy Company had the rare honor of saying they'd been more smashed than Lewis Nixon the day the European campaign officially ended. No easy feat.

He was very much sober, for now, as he lounged lazily in the chair next to his best friend overlooking the best Austria had to offer. As he lit a cigarette, he got the amused arched brow of his redheaded companion.

"Lew…" he sighed. "You'll kill yourself with those things before you can get out of this war alive."

He smirked in his usual flippant manner, causing the other man to crack a small smile in return.

"Maybe that's the point." It took him a second to register the fact that he'd said _maybe_. It seemed to take Dick by surprise too, causing the rare smile to widen a bit more. A noticeable relief overtook his friend's posture before he directed his attention back to the table. Nix's dark eyes watched as Major Dick Winters filled out the paperwork requesting a transfer to the 13th Airborne and with that, the Pacific.

Death didn't want him, but apparently, Lewis Nixon had other things to attend to. He sat back in the chair, leaned his head back and puffed out a breath of smoke on a chuckle.

"Guts and glory…"

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Das Ende

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_**A/N: It's only natural that I start my tentative venture into this fandom with a relatively dark character introspective… I'm a sucker for the misunderstood, tortured characters. So, obviously, Lewis Nixon just jumped out and said 'Pick me! Pick me!" And since Ron Livingston looked just so adorable doing that, I couldn't resist. LOL. I may come back and tweak this a bit, but as it stands right now, I'm happy with it. Let me know how you like it!**_


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